


Keep Living Anyway

by Intergalactic_Asher



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Brief mention of Hamilton/Laurens, Burr/Hamilton friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intergalactic_Asher/pseuds/Intergalactic_Asher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr is methodical in his work, reasonable in his hours. Hamilton writes at a breakneck pace and never seems to go home. Burr never wonders about the reason until he learns it. Set during Non-Stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Living Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> I found the lyrics to "Tomorrow There'll Be More of Us" and then I had to write this... I hope this makes y'all cry as much as it makes me cry.

The scritching of Hamilton’s pen becomes white noise after a while, so fast and constant it could be rain or wind outside Burr’s window. It’s a testament to their poverty that Burr can hear it through the walls but Hamilton is at any rate a loud writer. Burr isn’t sure how that’s possible, but then, he supposes that Hamilton can’t do anything quietly lest the world implode.

In the months leading up to the Levi Weeks trial both of them work frantically. They arrange to meet with Henry Livingston twice weekly to strategize together, but both of them are reading and writing so furiously it’s difficult to arrange even that. Burr throws himself into the task wholeheartedly - it is the nation’s first murder trial, after all, and Burr does not do things by halves whatever Hamilton says - but no amount of passion can match Hamilton’s fervor. When he’s not preparing for the trial, he’s writing about abolition, or pleading with the states to give Congress more power, or, heaven help him, drafting up some harebrained scheme to replace the Articles of Confederation altogether. Burr eventually stops asking what exactly he’s writing at the moment; any attempt at conversation will produce either a brusque brushing-off or an hour’s monologue. Burr works methodically on the case, writes occasionally to his friends out of state, goes home at reasonable hours. Hamilton always leaves work after Burr and gets there earlier. Burr is convinced that some nights he simply sleeps at his desk.

Weeks is acquitted after only five minutes of deliberation, though for Burr it feels more like five years of watching Hamilton struggle not to fidget too much in his seat. After the trial Hamilton is so elated that he takes Burr and Livingston for drinks. Burr nurses his whiskey and watches Hamilton rehash in an increasingly slurred voice every point they had made only hours ago.

Burr doesn’t see Hamilton for a week after the trial. Hamilton is certainly at work - the constant noise of his quill is proof enough of that. But Burr never sees him. For all he knows, Hamilton hasn’t left his office since the trial. Burr ignores it. He has his own work to do and honestly, it’s a relief to spend time away from that hurricane of a man.

Then one night the scritching stops.

Burr isn’t sure how long it takes him to notice it - he’s working late tonight drafting a treatise on women’s suffrage. He doubts he’ll ever publish it; he’s eternally hesitant to be in the public eye in such a manner. Still the subject is near to his heart, outraged as he is that Theodosia has no public voice, and neither will his daughter when she comes of age. He is engrossed in his writing, and he doesn’t notice the silence at first.

When he does notice, it takes him a full minute to comprehend. Hamilton’s pen rarely ceases, and when it does Burr can hear the floorboards creaking as he paces. This is different. This is utter silence.

Hamilton has never once left their office first (Burr privately wonders if Hamilton sees it as a competition; once he stayed late to see if Hamilton would ever go home and the pen-scratches next door seemed to become more obstinate with time, as if Hamilton was determined to outlast him). There must be some other reason for the quiet next door. It’s unsettling.

When they began working together Burr was annoyed at the constant noise, but now he finds he can’t concentrate without it. What in the world is Hamilton doing in there?

Equal parts curious and concerned, he finally gives up on his treatise, rises, makes his way next door. Hamilton’s door is shut. He knocks quietly, then louder when there is no response.

The door is not locked, so he lets himself in.

Hamilton is at his desk, slumped over it, and at first Burr wonders if he’s asleep. Then Hamilton says, “In most circles it’s considered impolite to enter someone’s private quarters without invitation.” His voice is utterly flat; it carries no spark of eagerness or that know-it-all quality Burr finds so irritating. Burr can hardly recognize it at Hamilton’s voice.

Burr closes the door behind him, internally breathing a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t make sense to worry that something had happened to Hamilton, but the silence had been worrying all the same. “You don’t care about politeness in the rest of your life; I assumed you wouldn’t here either,” he retorts. He pulls up a chair and sits next to Hamilton, facing him side-on. Hamilton doesn’t raise his head.

“What’s the matter?” Burr asks. No response.

“I would think someone who prides himself on never holding in his opinion would tell a friend when something was upsetting him this much.”

Hamilton turns his head to glare at Burr. Then his gaze drops to the ground. “There’s nothing left to do,” he says at last.

“What do you mean?” Burr asks. Hamilton never runs out of things to do.

“There’s nothing left,” Hamilton says, and he sounds… Well, he doesn’t sound much like Hamilton. He sounds desperate. “I’ve written all the letters I can. I can’t start editing my essays until I’ve slept on them. There’s no case… I have nothing to write and he’s- and there’s nothing to do.”

Hamilton’s breakneck pace before the trial and in the week since suddenly makes much more sense. “You were distracting yourself,” Burr says slowly. Laurens’ death came as a shock to everyone, Burr included. He was a great soldier, dedicated and clever, kind and never hesitant. Burr had thought he would be a great leader of the new nation - and a great force in keeping Hamilton in line. Everyone felt his loss, but he and Hamilton were closer than most. Much closer, according to the rumors.

Hamilton has turned his face away from Burr again, but he still responds. “I don’t know what to do. He’s just… How can I keep living knowing he doesn’t get to?” Hamilton pauses, takes a shaky breath. Burr feels himself shudder. For a moment he’s a child again, unsure where his parents went, then his grandparents.

Burr knows that Hamilton has seen death before. They both know how to keep living when someone else does not. Burr doesn’t need to tell him this, only help him to remember it.

Hamilton is still talking. “It should have been me. He could have done so much more than me.” Burr has never seen Hamilton this vulnerable before. He doubts anybody has, even Eliza. He’s not sure whether he feels honored or scared or something else altogether.

He rests a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton doesn’t shake it off, which is a good sign. “You should give yourself more credit. You’ve done a lot… You’re going to do a lot more.”

“If he had just come home…”

“He was a smart man. He knew what he was getting into.”

“The war was over! The battle was pointless… He didn’t have to... “ Burr can tell Hamilton is barely holding himself together. “He would be so embarrassed. It was for nothing. It didn’t even… The war was over.”

Burr wishes he could argue, but there’s nothing he can think to say. He squeezes Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton is shaking; he’s trying very hard and very obviously not to cry. “It’s alright, Alexander,” Burr says.

He looks away out of respect for Hamilton’s dignity while sobs rack the man’s body. But he doesn’t let go.

It takes only a couple of minutes for Hamilton to pull himself back together. He wipes his face messily with his arm. “Thank you,” he says. His voice only shakes a little bit. “I didn’t realize how cathartic that would be.”

“There are other ways to keep going than working yourself to the bone,” Burr says.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? If anyone were to know… I hate to think what they’d say about me.”

“Of course,” Burr says. “Alexander, we have our differences, but I am your friend. You can trust me.”

Hamilton nods slowly, takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he says again, then lets out a yawn.

“Come on,” says Burr, standing up and offering a hand to Hamilton. “Let’s get you home. No use in staying if there’s nothing to do,” he adds, seeing Hamilton open his mouth to retort. “I’m sure you’ve been missed at home this week.”

For once in his life, Hamilton shuts up. He follows Burr, stumbles. Burr wraps an arm around Hamilton’s shoulders to hold him upright.

They leave together, Burr supporting Hamilton. The extra distance even over snowy ground is worth the relief on Eliza’s face when Burr deposits her husband at the door. She invites him in for a hot drink, but he declines. He has his own home to return to.

As Burr leaves the Hamilton residence snow starts to fall, blurring and then obscuring his and Hamilton’s footprints. He doesn’t pass anybody on the street. He thinks about Theodosia waiting for him at home; about Eliza and Hamilton, no doubt asleep by now; about Laurens, somewhere the cold can’t penetrate. A good man, Burr thinks. A good soldier. A good friend to Hamilton.

Hamilton has very few friends left. It’s up to Burr to be the best one he can.

He hurries home. He’ll need to get to work early tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Burr actually was a suffragist (and an abolitionist)! He tried to pass a women's suffrage law while he was a senator.
> 
> Edit: I didn't know this when writing this fic but my asshole cinnamon bun son John Laurens knew full fucking well that the war was over when he decided to attack that British regiment in North Carolina considering he negotiated the terms of surrender at Yorktown. Does the fact that he knew he was throwing his life away make it even sadder? Probably, but I'll leave that up to the reader.


End file.
